hollanov, M, 246 words.
Ilya drives into Shane hard and feels-sees-experiences in intense fractured detail his reaction to the intrusion. His spine curving like a cat's under Ilya's palm, sheets caving into the crush of his fingers in the corner of Ilya's eye, and a brush of something rough-like against Ilya's calf -- Shane's sock, he realises, shoved up against him as Shane's legs have retreated inwards in primal defence. Ilya shudders, soothes Shane with murmured encouragement, fucks him like a coax, an assurance, it's okay, you want this, yes, you want not to want it and that makes the want wilder, doesn't it, makes it gnash its teeth. He trades Shane's hip for his ankle, which has shifted back and away from Ilya's leg as he's relaxed, holds loosely the point where cotton engulfs flesh and bone, one half burning with human desire and the other smothering it. Hooks a finger past the line, pulls. He doesn't know if Shane even feels it; Ilya is still fucking him without mercy. The elastic snaps into Shane's skin when Ilya lets go, and the only indication Shane registers this is a twitch of his calf muscle. Maybe only reflex. Ilya does it again harder. Again, faster than before, harder. Now Shane moans, and the timing is right for it to be an acknowledgement. Ilya hums and slaps the jut of his ankle bone like he would a horse's flank. Repossesses Shane's hips, then - both hands - and bends his head into the work.
